


you're a lot, but i like it though

by scarlett_starlett



Series: scarlett's spideypool bingo [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternative Universe - Personal Assistant, Banter, I stan Twunk!Peter Parker and so should you, M/M, Secret Identity Fail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 18:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20068426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_starlett/pseuds/scarlett_starlett
Summary: Spideypool Bingo 2019: Personal AssistantIn which no one is who they said they were and Wade justreallywants to score a date with the resident twunk at Stark Industries.





	you're a lot, but i like it though

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kVader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kVader/gifts).

> i wrote this up in a fevered 3 hour haze and beta'd it on my own after inhaling a protein shake and, like, half a granola bar and that's about as good as this month has been going lmao <strike>send memes in the comments</strike>

“Shoulda’ gone to college—then I would be able to have me one of _those, _ ” Wade groans, slumping over the table as he stared at the _ absolute dreamboat _ that was currently serving himself a bowl of what the nameplate called _painted soup _although it didn’t _taste _like paint or even really look like it. It just looked like soup, like the shit they made him scarf down in minutes when he was a greenhorn in the military. Wade stirred his spoon in the bowl a few times, frown deepening with every rotation. His eyes flickered back up to the cutie in the button-up, whose eyes sought his out and narrowed pointedly. Wade perks up—was he looking back at him? Oh, my God. Was his hair okay? 

“Is my hair okay?” Wade blurts out. 

“You don’t got any hair,” Logan lazily reminds, sat beside him glowering out a window. “Like it matters either way.” 

Oh, yeah. He has a crew cut. 

“But am I a pretty girl?” Wade bats his eyes. 

Logan snorts loudly. “Ain’t got a single bone in your body built for pretty _or _college—you can’t even sit still when we do briefings.” 

“That’s because Piotr is _boring.” _

“And yuh can’t follow simple instruction,” Logan grouses, reaching into one of his pockets on his belt to take out a pack of cigarettes. “We’re in public, dumbass.” 

“Look, _you _know as well as _I _do that Colossus is a dumb fucking codename.” 

“That’s not what—!” Logan growls. Fuck fake identities then. Why did he agree to go along with the fake identity bullshit, anyway? Wade _always _blew their cover. “Like Deadpool’s any better,” he tacks on sourly. 

“Like _Wolverine _even deserves a participation award! Just because you’re four foot two doesn’t mean you have to blast it to the world! Just how low is your self-esteem that you have to hide in plain sight?” 

“That’s _five foot two, _you Canadian sack of shit.” 

“YOU’RE CANADIAN, TOO!!” 

“Yeah, but they actually want me to visit, unlike you. You’re a national embarrassment,” Logan retorts, then lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. He’d been craving one for the past _four hours _and he was getting sick of all the rules and regulations that he had to follow on site. This was possibly the _worst _mission they had ever agreed to take. Stark Industries was a lustrous skyscraper smackdab in the middle of Midtown, New York—too many people, too much commotion, too many _openings_. Just knowing it was in _New York_ meant it was going to be a painful assignment. Logan doesn’t think he’s ever walked in such busy, commercial avenues even before joining the military—before all this shit that made him unable to even consider reintegrating into civilian life. He cuts a look at Wade, who's doing a poor job at hiding his ogling. Then he glances at the lanky man sat a few tables opposite of him, who's doing a poor job at hiding the decidedly _pissed _look on his face. 

Yet another person pissed at Wade Wilson. 

If there weren’t at least 5 people pissed at Wade every day, something was wrong. 

“Um, excuse me? Sir? Stark Industries is a No Smoking premise—” 

“Keep talking and I’ll break that clipboard in half and shove the pieces up your ass,” Logan cuts him off, turning hard blue eyes to the squeaky little intern who had the nerve to come up to two military men in full gear. He swallows whatever else he wanted to say and swiftly turns around to leave. Logan watches him go bemusedly, exhaling a cloud of smoke and ignoring the nasty looks he receives from staff. 

If Wade and Logan are lucky, they will pull out of this particular assignment early and then Logan can_ really _get his claws dirty; Stark had said if anything were to happen, it would be within these two weeks. 

_ Just two weeks, _Logan thinks with a shuddery breath. 

“Okay, but is my face okay? I feel a pimple on my chin, but I can’t tell if it’s a pimple or a bug bite. Check!!” 

“For fucks sake,” Logan shoves his chair back, ignoring the startled and fearful looks thrown his way. He picks up his full plate, dumps it in the garbage, bowl and all, and leaves to patrol the perimeter as Wade grins at his backside. 

“You don’t gotta’ be such a sourpuss all the time, Wolvy!” Wade yells after him. “This is why no one loves you!” 

“Eat shit and die, Wade.” 

“Ooh, I thought we were only using our kinky names, is the roleplay over? I didn’t safe word out yet,” Wade cackles. 

_ Two. More. Weeks, _Logan grits his teeth and tries not to cause a scene. He's pretty sure Stark would be displeased if they traumatized his staff. He _ wishes _someone would try him as he heads down the hallway, staff giving him a very wide berth as he does. 

Wade watches him stomp around the corner with a silly smile and then turns back to his_ painted soup, _wrinkling his nose down at it. How hard would he be judged by the twunk in the button-up if he just dumped his soup and took a whole plate of finger food? At least the finger food had meat in it. Wade had just about made his decision when a chair in front of him is pulled out. He flicks his eyes up to find pretty hazel ones looking down at him—along with the _cutest _smile, oh, he had _dimples! _He looked even _more _precious than the stock photo in his file. That picture did his pretty hazel-green eyes _no _justice. 

_ This is how Wade Wilson dies—not in a barrage of bullets and _ _ explosions _ _ , but because of dimples. _

_ Sarcastic _dimples, because this twunk looked _thunderous _. 

But the _dimples _... 

“I would appreciate it if you used your inside voice—if you even have one, I’m doubting you even have a brain at this point,” dimple-twunk grit out, voice deeper than Wade anticipated. It made him perk up; oh, _ boy _ , did deep and authoritative voices do it for him! “I really don’t need another stack of complaints to run through because you two decided to have a _literal _pissing contest in the men’s 35th floor bathroom. Again. _Ring a bell?"_

“Ooh, baby got bite. I'm interested—and, for your information, that wasn’t a pissing contest.” 

“Oh, really? There was an attempt to draw multiple dicks...with pee,” he blandly reminds, and Wade sniggers. 

He stops when the man slits his eyes at him threateningly. 

“No, really, it wasn’t! Look, you wanna’ know the truth? The real deal? The meat of the sandwich? Or you just wanna’ know meat in general? Perhaps my meat. Yes, I’m offering. I’m premium Canadian uncut,” Wade winks, and pretty boy cocks his head up, thinning his lips like he wants to pretend he isn’t funny. It’s totes cool; Wade is used to it. He knows he’s _totally funny_. 

“Fine,” Wade dramatically sighs when the man only hardened his glare. “I’ll tell ya’—no need to yell! I can be reasoned with!” 

The twunk rolls his eyes while Wade continues on dramatically: “The truth of it is, the reason for the badly drawn pee penis on the wall _is _ ... because Wolvy isn’t tall enough to reach the urinal, okay? He tried his best to aim. Don't tell anyone. _He's self-conscious_,” Wade whisper-yells, and grins widely when pretty boy chokes on a laugh. 

“I... Okay. I’m not going to even try to argue with that. Regardless of whether or not that’s true, Mr. Preston—!” 

“There should be a _Seargent _somewhere in there, if ya ’ know what I mean,” Wade waggles his brows and the man barely bats an eye although his lip does twitch. In annoyance or humor, Wade will take what he can. “By that I mean I’m in the military. I have a rank—I'm what you would call _mildly important _but easily replaceable, yet none can match my wit and sheer recklessness so I would still be missed for _a minimum _of 2 weeks.” 

“..._ Seargent _Preston,” pretty boy corrects after a pause, and continues: “That still doesn’t give either of you the permission to defile the restrooms and scar pretty much every staff member on that floor. If Captain Silverfox has issues reaching the urinal, he can use the children’s restroom. They’re located every five floors towards the north-end wing of the building.” 

Wade bursts into laughter, slamming a hand on the table and making his bowl bounce. “Oh my fucking—oh my _God_, please say that to his face. It'll be the last thing you ever see but please—_please _do it, I promise I’ll shoot him once or twice, in your honor.” 

“I’ll say it to your face, too—if you have difficulty conducting yourself in a mature manner, I’m sure Mr. Stark wouldn’t have any problems letting you outside to hang out in the rooftop playground every few hours.” 

“What the fuck—there's a rooftop playground? Seriously, how much money does this guy have—and what for?! Why is there a playground on the roof of an _office building _?” 

“It’s a closed area, and it’s for employee children. There's a daycare onsite so employees don’t need to worry about childcare,” he explains patiently. 

“...Oh, wow, that’s actually really progressive and thoughtful of him. Is that included in the contract or are there extra fees?” 

“Included. Stark Industries has a very comprehensive benefits package. Beats out Google, anyway.” 

“Fuck, dude, I really should’ve tried in high school,” Wade sighs loudly then hums when he remembers one very important fact: “Actually, I don’t think it would’ve mattered. I ain’t book smart like you. But I am jelly—the only real benefit I get is a 3 day leave after I unalive people, and all bets are off if I ever have kids,” Wade snorts, leaning back in his seat. “They’d be lucky to see their dad once a year at that point,” he muses and ignores the way pretty boy’s face falls a little at the reminder. He composes himself again quickly. Wade appreciates that. “Y’know, you got a lotta’ balls coming up to me to nag about my _comportment_,” he playfully grins. “For an intern.” 

“Okay, I know I look young, but I’m _not _an intern,” he snaps, frustrated. “Why do people always assume I’m an intern, why not an... assistant or office worker? At least you didn’t ask me to get you a coffee...” 

“No, but I did imply I’d like to date the fuck out of you for a solid 3 days because I don’t think I can afford anymore with the way my military contract is set up,” Wade says plainly, and pretty boy deadpans a look at him. “Okay, fine, I'll be serious! Put those cute little claws away, I have sensitive skin. If you’re not an intern and are higher up on the office totem pole than I initially thought, then what_ is _your rank?” 

“Position. My official title position is Interim VP for Stark Industries.” 

“Oooh. Fancy.” 

“Nope.” 

“Oh? Do tell,” he tries to suavely roll the ice in his cup but just ends up spilling it a little. 

Pretty boy clears his throat to hide a chuckle. 

“Well, I worked in Stark’s R&D department before I was selected as Interim VP for the year because of my performance,” he explains and Wade looks around shiftily.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure. Of course. Of course I know what that is.” 

“Research and Development. I’m—!” 

“OHH! YOU’RE A LAB RAT!” 

“That is _not _anywhere close to what I do! I was a supervisor lab technician!” he sputters. 

“_Lab rat_,” Wade nods, assuredly. 

Twunkie just takes a deep, calming breath. Wade totally understands; he thinks he’s awesome, too, and sometimes has to breath in deeply to deal with all the awesomeness. 

“Anyway. Interim VP. So—!” 

“You’re just a glorified personal assistant and it fucking sucks, right? It sounds like it fucking sucks. It sounds like the pay hike is there so you don’t complain too much about how much it must fucking suck.” 

His lip twitches up. Wade _adores it. “Yeah, _something like that_. Actually, _ exactly that _ . _ I assist Mr. Stark on...everything he does and it really does _ suck, _ ” he sighs out and slumps forward. “I swear he doesn’t sleep! He’s always calling me at 2, 3am in the morning because he secured another business meeting! And then he makes me come in at 5am that same day because they’re in Singapore or Paris or Wales and we have to work ‘on their time,’ but I really just think Stark just _doesn’t need sleep to survive, just 7-shot expresso lattes every 5 hours."_

Wade’s eyes flicker down to the dark patches under his eyes and the slightly frazzled way his hair pokes out. He only carried a tablet with him, but Wade is sure there has to be a gazillion emails he receives every few minutes because that’s what running a business, or working in any type of office environment, meant, right? Emails. Tons of them. Wade knows at least 4 of his old superiors who nearly pulled their hair out when they returned to the office to hundreds of emails that needed their immediate attention yesterday. 

Wade would probably off himself if he had to work in that type of hell. 

It's why he’s repeatedly rejected promotions. 

It's also why he got _dishonorably discharged_, too, eh? Not very good at following protocol _ or _policy. 

He prefers to work with his _hands_, thanks. He's pretty fucking good at it. 

“I’m good with my hands,” Wade blurts out, cutting off pretty boy’s venting abruptly, then laughs when pretty boy sends him an incredulous look. “Oopsie! That should have some context but also not really because I _really am _good with my fucking hands, baby boy, lemme’ tell ya’!” and proceeds to run down his whole train of thought leading up to that statement, and then another one, and another one, until one by one employees began to vacate the cafeteria and a few others replaced them while Wade kept rambling on and the precious boy just let him. It looked like employees rotated lunches in shifts, but pretty boy stayed rooted to the spot across from him as Wade went into a weirdly detailed analysis of the Golden Girls’ subversive themes at a time when many topics were taboo. 

In fact, Wade is about to quote dialogue, episode release date, and time stamp when pretty boy suddenly says: 

“You’re...a lot.” 

Wade abruptly quiets, and feels a familiar twinge somewhere in his chest; somewhere where he thought it wouldn’t hurt anymore. He's heard that before—_a lot_, especially when he had been young. He is a lot. He's too much, most times. He knows that. 

He can’t help it. 

But pretty boy just smiles brightly, pushing his tablet away to hold out a hand. “I like it, though. It’s really nice to know there’s other people out there who can ramble on about anything and everything. You’re really passionate about...a lot of things. Having lots of opinions is good. Until it gets you in trouble, but that just keeps things interesting, right?” he grins. “My name’s Peter—Peter Parker.” 

“You already know my name.” 

“Seargent Emile Preston,” Peter nods. Wrong, but Wade will take it. He did this to himself, after all. “You probably know this, but I was the point of contact for your contract with us. I specifically picked you and your colleagues for this assignment because—!” 

“You had reason to believe there was a verifiable threat and we would be the best fit to neutralize that threat, and there is and it will be,” Wade finishes for him, perky. Peter blinks. “Like that _amateur _watching us through his scope a couple buildings that’a way! Ha! What a fucking joke—I saw him coming since, like, 3:24am yesterday. Who the hell takes a cab to these things? He should’ve taken the subway. Would've taken me longer to sniff him out,” Wade giggles, and stirs his cold and congealed soup with his spoon. “And I _ would _ have sniffed him out—anything _they _can do I can do better, and anything _ they _ can do I can do with 140 less bullets because my aim is _badass! _” he sings happily. 

“...Seargent Preston?” Peter squeaks, looking rightfully alarmed. 

“Ah, ah,” he leans over the table suddenly, gripping his shoulder. “Don’t give me such a big-eyed look, baby boy. He won’t do anything now. You aren’t his target, and neither am I. He’s just scoping out the place, but he won’t be for long,” Wade beams. “The 35th floor bathroom is closed down, right? Personnel on the floor would need to use either the 34th or 36th floor bathrooms. Hm?” His eyes twinkle. 

Peter’s widens with realization. “You—you did that on purpose.” 

“Aw, I wouldn’t give me that much credit! It was a spontaneous idea, is all. Worked, too. Most of my ideas do,” he adds, vaguely, then refocuses on Peter. “Wanna’ know another secret, Peter?” 

Peter just stares at him. 

“I’m also pretty high up the totem pole,” Wade sings. “And not who you think I am.” 

“I have your entire file. You’re just a Seargent.” 

“_Just?! _ Ouchie . Not in my manly buns,” Wade whines, and Peter can’t help but smile. He was such a playful man, not what he expected. He looked so huge and imposing, yet his voice was high and airy and _soft _and didn’t match his description at all—it was almost comical, how friendly and jubilant he sounded compared to his hardened, scar-ravaged looks. 

“I just like the way it sounds.” 

“Huh?” 

“Seargent. I like the way it sounds. Like chimichangas. I like the way that sounds, too, but they taste kinda’ gross. Don’t tell anyone I said that, okay? Our secret,” he winks. “We have a lot secrets now, huh? Gasp, did we just become besties?" 

“Wait, what? No, stop distracting me! What do you mean you’re not who I think you are? If you’re not a Seargent, if you’re not who your file says you are...” 

“Weeell, for one, Wolvy isn’t running this mission—he’s someone I invited because he has a particular_ skillset _I’ll need in a few hours. You also _aren’t _my point of contact. You contacted _another _branch which would have been enough, sure, if this situation was as simple as you thought it was—I took this assignment from them when I saw it in our database—because I _ can _ —and then _my _point of contact became someone with a douche- stache and a little bit of an alcohol problem. That changed the terms and conditions, you feel? When you take things from other branches. It goes from _contract _to _covert, _ ” Wade grins, and it’s sharp and dark. “I run _all _black ops, but don’t tell anyone I told you, that, either, okay? I’ll _know _and no one else will again,” he says airily, but Peter feels a chill in his bones at the threat. 

This is suddenly much, much worse than he was prepared for. 

“Then who are you and why did Mr. Stark contact you?” Peter demands, after a moment. 

“Been seein’ your name floating around everywhere. Real popular—thought it was because you have the tightest ass I’ve seen since, like, _Colossus_, but apparently it’s because you escaped a very, very dangerous man. Looks like a _caveman _got a hold of your lease and won’t let it go,” Wade pouts, then presses his forehead to Peter’s when his face loses all of its color. Wade’s strong fingers slid down to Peter’s arm, then to his forearm and rub down to his wrist, where Peter feels a card slip into his palm. Peter swallows and flicks his eyes down, drops the business card on the table just enough for him to see a _ very _familiar emblem. It was blasted all over the news every few months, after all. 

_ Deadpool. _

He _wasn’t _part of a military contract, Peter realizes with growing fury , he was part of a _mercenary group and Tony KNEW THAT AND HIRED HIM ANYWAY _

Wade’s eyes narrow in good humor, his icy blue warming just the slightest. Peter's embarrassed to admit the warm look makes Wade look..._ handsome _. “You’re gonna’ make us a pretty penny with how much your boss is paying to keep you alive,” Wade murmurs. 

“I'm going to kill him, then I’m going to punch you for being obtuse about this from the beginning,” Peter says calmly. 

Immediately, whatever charm Wade Wilson had pops in a flurry of childish whining. 

“What?! Noooo! Aww, don’t be so hard on him! He cares about you so much he’s willing to lay down some serious cash to keep seeing that cute smile of yours—I'm kinda’ jealous, it sparkles and dips right _ here,” _ Wade doesn’t touch, but gently points his finger at the corner of his mouth. Peter jerks back anyway, setting his jaw even though his face burns. Wade beams. “It’s hard to get close to a mark when I’m stationed so far away and Stark wanted us to be discreet about it. Mr. Caveman is being extra careful this time, it’s why he hired us. He’s a super sore loser and doesn’t like that you got away last time—to be fair, he has a record of exactly _ two _ people evading him, and one of ‘ em is you, button,” Wade explains but Peter’s already 5 pages deep into what he’s going to yell at Tony when he gets back up to Admin. “Just wanted you to come to me so I did all those _icky _things to attract your attention in the worst ways, sorry. Kinda' hard to ignore a dumbass, right?” 

"So, you planned this, too?” Peter’s scowl deepens. 

“Maaaaybe! I plan a lot of things,” Wade giggles. “Can’t plan how a person _feels, _though, but I’m glad it’s the same! Maybe you _will _let me date the fuck out of you for a solid 3 days! Just don’t _Dear John_ me, okay? I have a heart made of glass and bones made of paper. Oh, and I do write back. Promise.” 

Peter abruptly stands up. “I do _not _feel the same, what are you talking about? You just—who the hell gets this close to a person they don’t know anyway?! What was the point of keeping up this charade for so long?! _Why aren’t you more worried about the __sniper on the other building,” _ Peter hisses below a whisper, aware that staff are staring at them. “Is the original reason I even contracted you for _legit?!” _

“I like your eyes,” Wade grins dopily. 

Peter can’t believe this. 

“...Fuck off,” Peter sneers, and turns on his feet to have _lots of words _ with Tony because if word got out—and it will, because apparently _Deadpool _lives up to his reputation of being unable to keep his mouth shut for longer than 5 minutes—it was going to be a PR nightmare that Peter’s sleep schedule can’t handle right now. 

Stark Industries hiring a mercenary group because their VP had a hit contract out for him? 

_ God _. 

Peter isn’t getting paid enough to deal with this shit. 

He couldn’t _ wait _ until Pepper resumed her place as Tony Stark’s PA—that woman was a force to be reckoned with, if she can handle everything as VP _and _still have time for her regularly scheduled skin routine at the end of the day. 

_ ‘It’ll look good on your resume,’ my ass—not worth it, totally not worth it, _Peter grumbles. 

“Aw, don’t be that way, button—ouch, okay, maybe I shouldn’t have said all that, cut me some slack, I’m really bad at keeping secrets and I get _really _into the theatrics so they run away from me—wait, Peter, no, I’m serious, come back! I need to watch you for security purposes, wait, baby, OW, okay, no need to get violent, it hurts to get an erection in fatigues—!” Wade cackles as Peter slams the door behind him and right into Wade’s nose. 

If _Kraven _was really after him _again, _Peter was going to quit and bartend for the rest of his life. 

He hastily looks at Deadpool’s business card and falters a bit when he notices the printed number was scratched out, a new one in its place with— 

_ I know you’re pissed, but I’m serious about that Dear John thing— _

_ Call me xoxo _

He glances behind him, at Wade, who’s rubbing his nose but looking back at him hopefully. 

He doesn’t toss the card away, but he is going to have _words _with everyone who thought it was a good idea to keep this out of his sight. 

Then, maybe, he’ll give Wade a call—but _just _to give him another piece of his mind. 


End file.
